Two of Us
by harlequindreaming
Summary: There are two chairs, at the back of the Baker Street Bookstore and Cafe, that are always kept vacant; two chairs that Margaret Hudson keeps just for them. She watches the clock hit ten to, and then sets the kettle. They'll be here soon, her boys. The books are waiting.


Inspired by _Two of Us _as performed by Aimee Mann and Michael Penn, from the I Am Sam soundtrack.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Baker Street Bookstore and Cafe always opens at ten on the dot, every morning, even Sundays when the morning's gray. To be fair, plenty of mornings in England are gray, but Sundays always seem to be the dreariest. It's the day before Monday, the surrender of the weekend and respite, and Sunday mornings always come with the sense that so much more could have happened, so much more excitement could have been had, if only it weren't Sunday yet. Perhaps that is true; perhaps if there were just one more day there could be that adventure one is always looking for, but the fact is that after Sunday comes Monday. Baker Street B&C will open Sunday, regardless of whether Mrs. Margaret Hudson wants Monday to come or not.

Baker Street Bookstore and Cafe will open, the sign flipping round and the lights coming on as soon as she sees the minute hand strike and she hears the clock chime. It will take a while, up to an hour on the slow days, before the first of the customers trickle in, students looking for texts and professors looking for references and the odd mum looking for something to read on a rest day or while waiting for the kids. She appreciates every customer who comes through her doors, always tries to take the time to talk to them, offer a cuppa, recommend a book or two to go with the one in their hands. Almost every customer adores Margaret Hudson, with her wise mind and wiser heart. She has many regulars, from sixth formers to working professionals, and she remembers them all. She's just that kind of woman.

Her personal favorites are the teenagers and young adults, the ones who still have wanderlust in their eyes and a world of prospects at their feet. They're the ones who ask for the good books, the fat novels and slim reads that take them to many other worlds and points of view. And she has a soft spot for two in particular: a pair of young boys, whose pockets are mostly empty but whose hearts are full of life. She keeps a subtle vigil, a lookout for feet thundering on the pavement and laughter wafting through the air and sunlight dancing on dark curls and blonde thatch. She's learned by now, when to expect those two to come bursting in. Her boys.

There are two chairs, at the back of the Baker Street Bookstore and Cafe, that are always kept vacant; two chairs that Margaret Hudson keeps just for them. They've over by the window, so they can watch the rain or the snow fall, and on the odd days, bask in the sunshine. One chair is slate gray, all posh (if slightly worn) leather and chrome stands; the other is plush red with patches and a Union Jack pillow she'd found in her attic. There's a little table between them, a sweet rosewood affair that was a gift a few years back. Every Friday afternoon she watches the clock hit ten to four, and then sets the kettle. They'll be here soon, her boys. The books are waiting.

Right on cue the front bell rings, silver tinkle, and they're already in the middle of an argument. The kettle's just about to boil, and Mrs. Hudson brings down their mugs with a smile. The shop's empty for the time, the afternoon rush of customers having come and gone, and their voices carry with the carelessness all children their age have, when they believe they are invincible and all the world is open to their whims.

"_How _can you not have read it yet?"

"I _told _you: the summary alone is dull, the plot even more pointless. It is a waste of my time and synapses."

"It's one of the best-selling mystery books! I mean, I'd have thought, given your name, that you'd-"

"Yes, well, just because _you _choose to tempt fate much too literally, does not mean I should as well."

"Medicine is a perfectly acceptable choice of course at university, Sherlock, and I-"

"I suppose we should be grateful Mycroft doesn't have us quite at war with anyone at the moment or you might be jumping into that as well."

In the back room with the food things, Mrs. Hudson arranges some biscuits on a plate and sets the tea on a tray with a tiny smile lilting her lips. This is an argument she's heard far too often but it never fails to make her laugh. It'll go on for a while until the tea comes and they've both found books to their liking. She bustles out just as they've hung up their things on the coatrack: John Watson, sports jacket a little more worn for use now that the season's on, and Sherlock Holmes, charcoal gray peacoat elegantly matching his navy scarf and gloves.

"Need I remind you that _that's _a perfectly legitimate career as well, unlike yours, Mr. Consulting-Pathological-Forensic-Detective-Chemist-"

"Oh, have we gotten to the part of the conversation where we insult each other now? Look at that, Appleseed, you've managed to get ahead of me in something for once-"

"Stuff it, _Sherloaf, _or I'll-"

"Boys." Mrs. Hudson frowns at them from around a shelf, tea tray in hand and one eyebrow raised. Their mouths snap shut immediately, looking sheepish. They're utterly whipped, them two, because they both adore Mrs. Hudson so. She's become proxy grandmother to them both, over the months they've been coming here. And they the grandsons she won't be having. "Language," she admonishes, inclining her head because she can't wag a finger.

"Sorry Mrs. Hudson," they call out, like schoolboys reciting their lessons, and trundle off through the shelves. Predictably, Sherlock heads for the challenging books, the classics (he's been partial to Hemingway lately, and Joyce), while John heads to general fiction and picks out whatever catches his fancy. They come back a few minutes later, Sherlock (surprisingly) wielding Sartre's _No Exit _and John already thumbing through a secondhand copy of _The Hobbit _by Tolkien. Mrs. Hudson finishes setting out their tea (one cup strong and black, one cup with two sugars and a dash of milk) and places the biscuits nearer Sherlock's chair in hopes that he might eat something. He's getting too skinny, in her opinion; he's rag and bones beneath that pale blue button-down shirt.

"Thank you," John says politely, while Sherlock bundles himself in her arms in his usual exuberant fashion. She pats his riotous shock of hair with an indulgent smile and he abruptly pulls away to drop into his chair with a huff, feet swinging up to hook over one arm. She turns to John to find him watching Sherlock with that tiny smile on his face and that faraway look in his eyes, and it warms something inside of her, it does, that Sherlock's finally found someone who'll look at him like that.

She can still remember the first time he'd showed up here, skipping his classes in favor of hunting down a copy of Gray's Anatomy: a waiflike thing with pale skin and glass-cut vowels, poking about books that should have been far too much for a thirteen-year-old boy. A student at one of those posh schools, who's always spending all his pocket money on chemicals and books. It's been four long, somewhat trying years, and Mrs. Hudson thinks she's got no one she loves better - except John, of course. John Watson, who'd wandered in because the shop had caught his eye, and hadn't flinched when Sherlock had figured out everything about him. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes; oh, the laughs they'd had over that particular fateful match. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, meeting in a tiny bookshop in 221 Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson leaves John shaking his head with a fondly exasperated expression on his face, and goes to mind the shopfront to give them a bit of privacy. She gets around ten minutes of peace and page-turning before the inevitable conversation drifts over.

It begins with a sneeze.

"I _told _you." John's voice is heavy with the weariness one usually finds in elementary teachers trying to get their pupils to understand that two _plus _two and two _times _two are _the same. _"You really didn't need to come pick me up from uni. I could have met you here and brought you those skin samples you wanted, though _why _you even want them in the first place, I've no idea-"

"And _I _told _you,_" comes the replying, petulant voice (and Mrs. Hudson can just see the pout Sherlock is definitely trying to hold back), "I wanted to get them for myself. It isn't as if the walk's very far, anyway, and you exaggerated the weather."

"Sherlock." The tiny sigh comes with a rustle of paper; John's talking over his book. "The snow was coming down like shit and you weren't even in the proper shoes for it. And you didn't have your scarf, either, since some genius went and left it in my dormitory room the last time he snuck over because he wasn't studying for his BioChem exam."

"And I suppose you didn't spend the last three days wearing it around and sniffing it in your sleep."

"You be thankful I returned it to you, Sherwood, else you'd have to explain to Mycroft just why you need another bloody expensive scrap of fabric-"

"John Lewis is not a _scrap of fabric,_ Johnnycake. I'm appalled at you."

"And you say you aren't gay."

"Knowledge of fashion does not a sexual orientation make, Appleseed."

"Oh, for the love of - just eat your biscuits."

Up front, Mrs. Hudson smothers a laugh as a customer enters and approaches the counter. She excuses herself to nip to the shelves to find the book the customer's asking for, and takes the long way so she can sneak a peek at the two over at the back. As usual, John's sitting cross-legged in his chair, book in his lap and sock-covered toes wiggling ever so often as they do when he gets to a complicated part of the plot. Sherlock's draped over the chair, feet dangling off the edge, with the book so close he might as well be cross-eyed. The plate of biscuits is half-consumed, and there are suspicious crumb-like scatterings at the corners of Sherlock's lips. Orders must have been followed, after all.

She's just located the book when the conversation picks up again, and this time she can't suppress a little chuckle at how childish Sherlock really can be. For a boy with the mind of a genius, his emotional state seems to have been stunted at age four. It's just another one of the ways John fits so snugly around him: the man has the patience to rival the saints.

"You're having soup when we get back to my dorm."

"Soup, boring. Now blowfish from that sushi bar three blocks over, _that _would be something to try-"

"I'm not letting you eat poisonous seafood prepared by an uncertified chef, Sherlock."

"Why not? You haven't taken the Hippopotamus Oath yet so it isn't as if you're obliged to-"

"_Hippocratic _Oath, Sherlock, honestly-"

"-to, what is it? Uphold my life and do your best to ensure my health and well-being at all costs?"

"No, I haven't taken it, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let you shove deadly food into your mouth just because you think it's interesting."

"Well you certainly are doing a good job of proving this French existentialist fellow correct."

"You do that on a daily basis."

"You wound me, John."

There's a soft muffled thump, and when Mrs. Hudson finishes up with the customer she wanders over to find a flabbergasted looking Sherlock with the corner of the Union Jack cushion in his mouth, book upended on his lap. John's sitting in his chair, quiet and behaved as you please, idly flicking through the pages and looking for all the world as if he's completely absorbed in his book.

Mrs. Hudson presses her lips together and counts, five, four, three-

"You threw the pillow at me!"

"Yes, well, you wouldn't shut up."

"You _threw _it. At _me_."

"And you berate me for stating the obvious."

The indignant look on Sherlock's face and the self-satisfied smirk on John's are enough for Mrs. Hudson to shake her head, shoulders quivering in silent laughter. She gives the heavens yet another look, one that mixes thanks for their presence in her life and a wondering at what she had done to deserve this. She leaves them to their devices again, shuffling off to brew a fresh batch of tea. It looks like it might be a long afternoon.

The silence holds as the snow comes down. Mrs. Hudson turns up the heating slightly; at her age, the cold gets to her a bit more strongly. Customers come and go, a few making purchases while the rest just browsing. The two remain undisturbed at the back, well into their third cups. Sherlock kicks his feet every so often, and John frowns and licks his lips, and they read in companionable silence, with only the occasional _shick _of turning pages and sniffle from Sherlock to break it. It's just gone six when a quiet voice pipes up, its owner's gaze deliberately fixed on the lines of text before him.

"Thank you."

"I thought you said you'd told me it wasn't worth it because I'd get sick or slip and die and-"

"Yeah, yeah, all right."

When Mrs. Hudson goes for her third check on them, she finds John smiling that crinkly-eyed upturn of lips at Sherlock, and Sherlock looking mighty pleased with himself but with two spots of color high on those cheekbones of his. He twists in his seat and stretches out one sock foot to nudge John in the knee, and John retaliates by rubbing a few gentle circles on his ankle before shoving it off. It's near seven and dark by the time they emerge at the front, just a few minutes shy of closing time. Sherlock hugs Mrs. Hudson again and John gives her a polite nod (and ends up being hugged too, anyway). Sherlock decides to be pettily jealous and gives John a resounding smack on the cheek. John turns pink and takes three tries to get his arm in the proper jacket sleeve, while Sherlock hums an almost cat-like purr while he winds on his scarf. Mrs. Hudson turns them out, clucking at their shamelessness, but stands at the window as they wave their goodbyes.

Baker Street Bookstore and Cafe always closes at seven on the dot, and the clock chimes again as Mrs. Hudson flips the sign back over and clicks the lock shut. Before she flicks off the front lights she glances out the window, at the two retreating figures, walking side by side in the falling snow. A gloved hand is tucked in the back pocket of a pair of jeans, and a blonde head is turned to watch as a pale boy tips his head back laughing. With a quiet smile, Margaret Hudson goes to the back to clear away two cups and a half-eaten plate of biscuits, tidies up the chairs so they'll be ready for their informal owners tomorrow. The books will be waiting.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_**A/N **For the unaware: Sherlock is reading Jean-Paul Sartre's "No Exit," an existentialist play about three people in hell. The gist of the play is that hell is other people, as we are all capable of torturing each other in our own human ways. I recommend it; it's an interesting read, and a wonderful perspective on human nature. Once you get past the weirdness of the actual story, of course._


End file.
